


Child in the Manger

by Mental_Kitten



Series: Problem Child series [3]
Category: Minecraft (Video Game), Video Blogging RPF
Genre: Child Abuse, Child Neglect, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, M/M, Molestation, Murder, Other, Psychological Trauma, Rape/Non-con Elements, Sexual Abuse, Trauma
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-19
Updated: 2020-12-19
Packaged: 2021-03-11 02:35:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,081
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28177749
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mental_Kitten/pseuds/Mental_Kitten
Summary: The sacrifice that lived.
Relationships: No Romantic Relationship(s)
Series: Problem Child series [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2035459
Comments: 36
Kudos: 285





	Child in the Manger

**Author's Note:**

> This is shorter than I wanted it to be but it's still some background! :3 
> 
> Doesn't get graphic, but don't read this is sexual abuse/molestation is a trigger for you.

His earliest memory was of dirt. Dirt, filth, grime. He grew so accustomed to it while never learned how to refer to it, or how to refer to himself. The cold was always the worst on him, though. Those years spent writhing in the pen as his skin burned from the cold. The numbness was arguably worse, though.

He could distinctly remember everything around him, even to the most minuscule detail. He also remembered how infuriating it was for him to not have a single word to describe any of it. The frustration he felt from his lack of vocabulary, unable to speak. He didn't even have a name for himself. He could barely articulate his own thoughts, the only notions swimming around his mind being that of pure emotion. That frustrated him too.

The first few years of his life were spent in the dirt, bare and broken as he let his anger fester. He couldn't count to tell what time had passed, but he could recognize when he was getting bigger. He couldn't speak, but he realized what size the others were taken at. The size that he was getting to without realizing it. It was just another thing to be upset about. Another thing to piss himself off since he didn't understand it.

He could tell when he was the size to be dragged away. He couldn't count the fucking days, and he had no way of keeping track of the time. It could've been minutes, or it could've been years. Not having anything to articulate his memory with was just another thing to add to the boiling pit of rage in his stomach. The flaming hot anger was always there when food wasn't, filling what the scraps he managed to sneak away didn't. He considered at some point eating one of the crawling monstrosities in the edge of his pen, but found that holding one gave him an odd sense of peace.

The day finally came, and he never knew what was said. He screamed and fought as hard as he could, lashing out against the figures trying to drag him away. The cracked walls of the pig house were the only serenity in his pathetic existence, and they were trying to drag him away from it. He couldn't think past that of an animal due, so he did was an animal did. He let the rage in his stomach boil over. The burn of his throat as he let out a noise he hadn't heard from himself. The visceral disgust of them doing this to HIM. His vision was black for an unidentified amount of time, the familiar scent of what he now knew was blood filling the surrounding air.

He had opened his eyes at some point, the sun sparkling against the layer of warm crimson that painted the ground. It was warm against his skin, smearing in a way that the murky liquid he got to drink didn't. The figures still had the thick streams of blood pooling out of their ears and mouth, bodies twitching as he watched them bleed themselves dry from the holes in their heads. An odd warmth filled him, and it was the first time he felt at peace.

He didn't know how long he had sat, staring at the corpses before him. Hell, he didn't even know why they weren't moving. He did know that by the time someone else had shown up, that amber beams of light had stopped pouring in through the open barn door. Looking back, he realized how easily he could've escaped. But he also knew that he would've died. Yet death would've been so much more meaningful that what his pathetic existence had ended up being at the time.

The people who had found him had stared at him with what was easily disgust and fear, but all he could tell is that they were looking at him. He could also tell that he was going to be in a lot of trouble. The rest of that day had ended up being mostly blank, which probably had something to do with the pain in the back of his head. He didn't know they had been the ones to knock him out, though he probably would've reacted poorly if he did. Not that he reacted well to waking up in an unfamiliar place.

He had been about to start thrashing in the hot water of the bath when someone must've realized that he was moving. The pain in the side of his neck and his limbs going numb was a good indication that he had been drugged. The wandering hands seemed content to return to what they were doing despite the fact that he was conscious now. The fingers were cold even in the heat of the water, which somehow made it much worse. He could feel each individual finger gliding over his skin greedily, making the anger in his stomach turn to disgust. He would've puked if he had anything in his system.

It could've been hours with how drawn out the touching had been. It felt like it could've been days, the experience burned into his memory so vividly that he could recall it almost perfectly. Time never seemed to dull the intensity of it. The fondling had turned to scrubbing at some point, cold fingers instead scrubbing his skin raw and clipping his nails. He didn't understand the strange cracking noises as they went over his fingers, but he didn't bother worrying about it once he found out that it hadn't hurt. The yanking on his hair definitely fucking did.

The tub had been drained, and he had been carried somewhere else, laid across fabric softer than anything he could've possibly fantasized. His limp body was dried and dressed, cold fingers still exploring him even after the layer of fabric was between them and his flesh. He preferred the scrubbing. The surrounding noises were unfamiliar but unmistakably those of communication. The way they conveyed emotions and thoughts to each other so effortlessly was just another thing to be upset about. Another log added to the inferno of rage settled under his skin. 

He wasn't used to clothes, and he remembered pulling at them and trying to undress himself the moment he could move by himself again. The tugging and clawing at the fabric let him see clearly that his nails were unfamiliarity short and clean. Hell, his skin looked like a completely different color once the layers of filth had been clawed away. He found that he was actually the same color as most of the taller figures that loomed over him. He didn't understand what the angry words being directed at him were, though. 

He really tried to copy their method of movement, but his back screamed at him with the unfamiliar strain. It was harder to crouch or crawl like he knew how with the weird clothes restricting his movement. The angry noises had been directed at him for a bit before he was being picked up and carried in a less-than-gentle manner. It was a different figure than it had been earlier, which he was equal parts upset with and grateful for. The figure seemed to care less about any kind of discomfort they caused, but they also seemed to not want to touch him like the others had. 

The rest of the day was spent with him trapped in a polished wood death contraption while more figures made noises at each other. He wasn't sure what their verdict about what to do with him had actually been, but he did find out that it wasn't something good. He had been carried in a similar manner out of the room by a different figure, and taken to a smaller area with a bed. He remembered everything horrifically vivid, but chose to cut off any train of thoughts that wandered past when the clothes had been stripped from him. 

At the time it had barely fazed him. He didn't know the sinful intent behind the fingers that had encased him. It got progressively more 'intimate', his apathy for the ordeal only seizing once it started to hurt. He couldn't do much more than squirm, which got him a hard strike across the cheek. The message was clear enough, and he simply held himself still. The threat of that happening again was worse than the discomfort. The rage bubbled in his stomach the longer it went on, but it subsided once the pain seemed to fade. 

He didn't particularly care about how long it went. He couldn't count, and replaying it in his mind let him imagine that it went by much faster than it probably did. He could still imagine the feeling of it. It wasn't the last time, but that was the only one that didn't bleed into the rest. Maybe it was because it was the first. Or maybe it was because he could recall it so vividly once it was explained to him what had actually happened. 

The following years were similar. He was fed once the sun began to peek over the horizon, he was scrubbed clean, dressed, then he sat in the lap of whatever priest wanted him for the day. The few simple commands he was taught were drilled into him, the actions behind them becoming a habit a few sleepless night into his routine. The first half of the night he was desecrated, and the second he laid awake and stared at the wall. 

The cycle was broken with what was probably around the twentieth man to take him for the day. He was rougher than the other's, his exploration more painful than the others. He seemed much more keen on striking him when he moved away from him or made noises to try and convey his discomfort. He let out a particularly loud shriek when he felt teeth piercing the skin near his collarbone. The blow he earned made his vision swim for a bit, his sight speckled with dark splotches for a few seconds as he tried to force himself to see. 

He didn't know what dying was at that point in his life. Hell, he didn't even know that he has murdered anyone. What he did know is that the fear that spread through him made his chest burn. It wasn't the same burning as the rage had been. "Sit." He doubted that the word came out with any kind of clarity, but he liked to think that it did. The point was conveyed enough, even as the choked butchering of the pronunciation left bruised lips. The figure looming over him had pretty much slumped to the floor, those demeaning amber eyes glazing over into pools of cold honey. He watched the bare legs curling underneath of the man as he sat on them, the same way he was so used to doing whenever the command was thrown in his face. 

The burning in his lungs turned cold as he repeated it, the ice spreading across his flesh. It quickly erased the sickening warmth that the man had left against his skin. The command slipped out of him again, and he had been utterly enthralled by the sight before him. He didn't understand how easily he could truly force his will upon others, and it had completely captured his attention. He repeated it again, watching him slump lower into himself. Again and again he said it, watching with amusement as he realized that HE was the man making the fiend collapse into himself. An unfamiliar feeling tickled his throat as a joyful noise left him, the sensation of his chest quivering from something other than anger foreign to him. 

He had gotten louder without realizing it, the sick enjoyment he was feeling fueling his volume. He barked it with enough intensity that he even withered away from his tone. The man suddenly slammed himself down to the polished wooden planked, the crack that followed bouncing around the room for a bit. He didn't know what it was, or why the puddle of crimson was forming underneath where the man's head was pressed to the ground. He had felt some sense of peace for a moment before ultimately curling on the bed. There was an odd sense of fulfillment as he let his eyes close, his rest one of soft blankets and warmth. 

And for the first time, he dreamed.


End file.
